


Morning in America

by gloss



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alpha Universe, Eye Trauma, I ♥ the 90s, M/M, Multimedia, Post-Scratch, Propaganda, Skateboarding, indie film, intergenerational relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 20:24:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/891473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What kind of stories do you want to tell, Dave?": Comedy legend Uncle John and slacker genius Dave (accompanied by goth genius Rose) make a beautiful movie together. Then everything goes to hell. Contains lots of riffing on celebrity and mid-90s pop culture. Illustrated, too! </p>
<p>HSWC Main Round #1 entry for Team Bunnykind, revised and expanded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning in America

* * *

  
  
  
[text](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1dOfF1hZLkvH-JDm5JZDCFHgYxGbza-vqLcOpQpUl8_g/edit?usp=sharing)   


* * *

The only reason Dave shows up for this meeting is because Rose predicted he wouldn't. "You'll run up the hotel tab on them, maybe take a studio tour, but actually go to the meeting? Never."

"Hey," he'd said, "We're doing Knotts Berry Farm, don't forget."

Shows how much she knows (a lot, actually, but that's not the point). Here he is, hair damp from the shower, sunglasses covering his chronic'd to hell bloodshot eyes, wearing torn old cords and dirty Vans. 

He might not look good, or even presentable, but he's here. Finishing off his fifth cupcake in ten minutes, making small talk with the cheesiest cornball of them all. 

He'd thought John Crocker must be dead by now.

Think again! It's everybody's favorite funnyman Uncle John, silver mustache and all, urging more cupcakes on him.

"What kind of stories do you want to tell?" Crocker asks. "Crockercorp wants to help you do that."

"Eh." Dave pop the entire bottom half of his cupcake into his mouth and chewing it. He doesn't exactly _plan_. "Dunno. What about you?"

"We want good stories. Get away from the same old cynical sex romps and shoot 'em ups."

_Shoot 'em ups_ : Dave has never heard anyone actually use the term out loud. 

He's starting to be glad he showed up.

Crocker's still talking. "There's gotta be more to life than sex and death, right?"

Dave scratches his jaw. His stubble makes a cool sound. "Dunno," he says. "Dig Freud up, ask him."

Crocker grins so wide his eyes crinkle closed. He slaps the desk. "That is _exactly_ the sort of humor we're looking for!"

Dave cocks his head. "I made a funny?"

Still guffawing, Crocker points at him and nods enthusiastically. "Yes, David, you did."

The thing is, Crocker's hot. Dave knows that few would agree with him right off the bat, and he's not about to construct an airtight argument, but the fact remains. Sure, Crocker's old, but he's also damn handsome in that way that faces aren't any longer. Old-timey movie handsome. And it's the mustache – because let's face it, the mustache is goofy – but the deep tan and eyes bluer than any swimming pool, his long, long limbs and body. 

Here's a man, Dave says to himself (because Dave likes to do voiceovers for his own experiences to make them a little more interesting), who knows who he is. Who's lived in his skin long enough to love it. Who likes to laugh and offers you goddamn delicious cupcakes when you show up twenty minutes late for your meeting.

Here's a man you could fall for.

Not that Dave does that sort of thing.

"You," Crocker continues, now that he's got his breath back, "are a treasure, young man."

"Yeah?" Dave holds out his arms and stretches before getting to his feet. Crocker's ridiculously blue eyes follow him as Dave wanders toward the desk. "You're the legendary comedian, though."

He pauses at the long shelf of awards and plaques, then slides up onto the desk just to the right of Crocker's chair. His legs dangle, toes scuffing the floor.

Crocker's just _looking_ at him. His hair isn't one shade of white, but about a hundred different threads of silver, platinum, and ivory, everything from old marble in the shade to the brightest megawatt smile on a new starlet. The strands are soft against Dave's fingertips, thin and silky.

"David," Crocker says under his breath. He puts both hands flat on the desk, palms down, and presses. Age spots freckle his hands. His manicure is neat and clean; his wedding ring is old and worn. 

He's still looking, wide-eyed, expectant and curious, not so old any more. His lips part and the breath he exhales rustles his mustache.

"You okay?" Dave's hand slides down Crocker's arm, down the silk of his shirt, then back up. Under the fabric, Crocker's muscles are prominent and ropy. Dave adds, softly, "sir?"

If he hadn't been touching him, Dave would never have known that John shuddered at that. 

But he is, so he does.

"Yes," Crocker replies, turning toward Dave. He places his hand very gently on Dave's bare knee, jutting through the hole in his pants. His fingers push a little higher, up into the hole.

"Good." Dave shifts a little closer down the desk until one leg is dangling between Crocker's two. He leans forward, hand on Crocker's neck. They're both trembling. Right up against Crocker's ear, Dave says, "The story I want? The one starring you."  


* * *

  


* * *

  
"You didn't say that. You did _not_ ," Rose says flatly when Dave gets back to their room at the Chateau Marmont. "Jesus."

"Felt appropriate." He drops into the armchair next to the bed and swings his feet up onto the mattress. "Anyway, it worked."

"Worked how?" The bed squeaks as Rose sits up. When he doesn't answer, she grabs one of his ankles and shakes. "How did it work?"

Dave opens one eye to check her reaction, smiles lazily. "How do you think?"

Rose frowns, her eyebrows drawing together. "You got a deal? Knowing you and your total lack of priorities, you just got laid."

He crosses his arms behind his head and whistles the first few bars of "Sexy M-F". 

Rose shakes him harder. "Which?"

He's the only person who can get her even mildly riled up. That fact makes him almost unspeakably proud. He intends to savor this moment for as long as possible.

"Fine," Rose says and releases her death grip. "Be a prick."

"Am not."

He waits, but the "are so" never comes. He hears Rose settle back on the bed. She probably has her nose back in her book and a truly terrifying scowl on her face.

Damn it. One honest moment is more than enough for a long time; two in one day might kill him.

He climbs up onto the bed and lies down beside her. They're exactly the same height; they can wear each other's clothes, though he rarely feels the need to drape himself in velvet cloaks and black lace.

It's a strange thing, meeting your twin when two decades of life are gone already. Like those dreams, finding a room that's always been there in your house.

Not that he ever had a house to call his own. 

Rose holds herself still, jaw clenched, arms crossed over her chest. 

"Both," Dave says, almost under his breath. She's going to make this as hard as she can for him. "It worked both ways."

Rose doesn't move, or even glance at him, for a long time. They just lie there together.

"Both," she finally says, just as softly. "Deal and an orgasm."

She slips her hand into his, threading their fingers together, and squeezes, as if to remind him she's immune to any and all of his bullshit.

"Correction: Two orgasms, one deal," he says.  


* * *

  


* * *

  
"You are entirely lacking in psychological complexity," Rose tells him when they're out on Catalina for the day. She's been back East, claiming that LA makes her stupider by the day, but she can't stay away long. Who else does she have to harass and second-guess and take stupid Polaroids of out there? "It's almost interesting."

"What? Sure I do."

"You really don't. Your attachment to Crocker is entirely obvious in its origins, so Oedipal that one can only yawn."

"I don't want to fuck my mom."

She waves her hand. "Inconsequential. You had sex with a man old enough to be our grandfather in order to obtain work and now you won't leave his side. It's nearly perfect in its banality."

"Had sex? Nah, _having_. Lots of it. As much as I can."

Rose just stares at him, shaking her head slowly. She sets down her bubble tea very deliberately, making sure she has his full attention. "Blowing him, sure. Gets you a better deal."

"Hey," he says without any heat. "I resent the implication, how dare you, pistols at dawn, blah blah, yadda yadda."

"Even hooking up, I guess..." She shakes her head again, pursing her lips like the thought alone tastes repulsive. "But whatever you're doing, I just --. What _are_ you doing?"

"Dunno." Dave bends and straightens one leg, rotating his foot to work out the soreness in his bad ankle. "Whatever, we're hanging."

"You're with him _all the time_. I thought it was just a sad Freudian episode, but --"

"We're making a movie."

She looks at him, calm as a damn cucumber doused in liquid nitrogen. Only she'll never shatter.

"So we hang out," he adds. "A lot. He's rad."

"You're practically dating."

Dave tries to fold his arms behind his head, look as casual as he wishes he felt. "Au contraire, for I don't date."

"Does he know that?"

He sucks in one cheek, gnaws it a little. John doesn't want to touch in public, which is fine by Dave. They don't go out to dinner and then go dancing or anything, which is basically what dating is. They do go out to eat, but a stomach's got to get filled. But dating isn't eating together and fucking a lot and lounging by the pool and fucking some more, is it? 

Fuck. It kind of is.

"He married a _Reagan_ ," Rose says. To her credit, she does try to hide her little smirk of triumph behind her hand, but it doesn't work.

"And I care about politics?"

"Crockercorp's one of the biggest conservative donors in the world, Dave. That's going beyond mere politics into human decency."

He points at her. It's so rare to be able to correct her; this feels _great_. "Not entirely true. They do fund a lot of pro-choice stuff."

"Not to mention brutal Third World death squads."

"Says one unstable freelance reporter at a free weekly in northern California, sure."

Rose sits back, crossing her arms. "Oh my god, you've got their party line down _pat_."

"Says you." He does not. That's ridiculous. But arguing with Rose just makes her worse.

He should know. He's exactly the same way. 

"If he disappeared tomorrow," Rose says, "what would you do?"

Dave looks down at his feet and wiggles his toes inside his sweaty shoes.

Whatever, hypotheticals are for scientists and all the other nerds.  


* * *

####  Uncle John's Unlikely New Pal

**US Weekly** , June 12, 1995  


* * *

  
Honestly, it's pretty simple.

John makes him laugh. The dude's a major league cheeseball, no doubt about it, of course. He collects knock-knock jokes, for God's sake, scrawling them down on the backs of receipts or credit card applications, any stray bit of paper, then tucking the paper into his pockets. When he takes out his wallet or keys, there's always a little blizzard of joke papers.

But that's the thing about John. He's such a cheeseball, such a weirdly sincere and gallant freak of nature, that he can be trusted.

In Dave's ample experience, people aren't to be trusted. They're overflowing with bullshit and always — _always_ — looking out only for themselves.

"Well, that's just not the case," John insists. 

They're in his office at home during lunch. Dave's stomach is rumbling, because he got distracted and things got away from him. 

Things named Crocker, that is. Dave's panting, sparks dimming before his eyes, having shot his load good and hard a couple minutes ago before he took up his train of thought again. Today's discussion: People and How They Suck, Not Like That, Fuck You're Good At That.

John's on his knees, wet mouth and chin against Dave's thigh. When he speaks, it tickles _on_ and _under_ Dave's skin.

"Agree to disagree, then." He doesn't feel like arguing, not with John and definitely not while he's feeling so fucking loose and good.

He really ought to get up, maybe eat. At least towel off. 

Instead, he's sitting here, splayed out and happy-buzzing, petting John's hair with a clumsy hand. Drops of his jizz speckle along one edge of John's mustache.

"Here --" He passes down the first thing in reach, his shirt. "Missed some, uh. Yeah."

John looks up, confused. Dave mimes wiping his own mouth. 

John holds his gaze, his eyes wide and so blue it's ridiculous, as he licks his lips, then rolls the upper one over his teeth and _sucks clean_ his mustache.

"Christ." Dave shifts and fakes a cough to cover the grunt. His dick twitches, interested all over again, as raw and well-sucked as it is. Ouch.

John gets sillier, waggling his eyebrows and making outrageous noises, cooing breathlessly like Marilyn: _Mi-his-ster Stri-uh- **der**_. So now Dave is turned on again _and_ laughing, his side cramping up, his cock aching. He pulls John up by the shoulders and cups his cheeks before kissing him hard and deep.

He tastes himself and chocolate frosting. Not a bad combo.

"If I disappeared tomorrow," he asks when they've calmed down, "what would you do?"

John shakes his head. "Not going to happen."

"You can't know that."

He winks at Dave and strokes his mustache. "I can, and I do. I have my ways, sir."

"Oh, really?"

John grins and pulls him close, knuckling his hair. Dave's face is against John's chest so when he says, "I do, I do. Indeedy-do," it's a rumble of thunder.

Later, John takes a nap (because he's old, Dave says; "because you wear me out, kiddo," John replies) and Dave goes swimming. Under the water, everything is sharp and blue and throbbing with motion. The chlorine stings his eyes and his fingertips and toes prickle like raisins, he stays in so long. When the light hits the pool's surface just right, it throws a reflection of connected diamonds, trembling like fishing nets, across the white wall. The silver lozenges dance, sever, then reunite, when the wind blows.

* * *

####  All-American Granddad + Slacker Wunderkind = Movie Magic? Crockercorp Bets on Yes!

  
  
**Rolling Stone** , October 1995  


Stop us if you’ve heard this one. Media-saturated prodigy hits the pop culture radar with little effort, even less apparent substance.  
     A couple years ago, Dave Strider was just another Gen Xer. A runaway from foster care and his group home, careless autodidact with a camera, he was slumping his way through shifts at The Movie Hut and shooting skateboarding videos.  
     His breakthrough came in the form of a seven-minute Super-8 short, “The Big Man”. Assembled from broadcast footage of Magic Johnson and David “The Admiral” Robinson filmed as it played back on a TV, the film seemed curiously, hauntingly, homoerotic -- or was that the joke? Drawing comparisons to the work of Kenneth Anger, Sadie Benning, and Spike Lee, it made a huge splash on the festival circuit.  
     Music videos and magazine shoots followed. Strider worked with a who’s who of grunge and hiphop luminati, including the Beastie Boys, Combustible Edison, De La Soul and Soundgarden. Even, it’s rumored, Hole, though that footage never saw the light of day. Meanwhile, his day job was as assistant photo editor for **Dirt** magazine, the short-lived spin-off known as “ **Sassy** for boys”.  
     Strider looked to be on the same Tarantino-esque trajectory with other slacker flashes-in-the-pan like Noah Baumbach, Spike Jonze, and Hal Hartley.  
     Then none other than Betty Crocker came calling. (Technically, it was her son, John, beloved by generations of Americans.)  
     Rumors abounded that Strider would develop “Big Man” into a feature-length vehicle for Shaquille O’Neal. Savvy fans claim that this script formed the first draft for **Kazaam** , an assertion that, when relayed to him, earned a rare smile from Strider.  
     One could be forgiven for assuming that Strider might use Crockercorp’s very deep pockets and John Crocker’s legendary good humor to make something nigh-unwatchable. Others fretted that Crockercorp’s notorious dedication to good, clean fun (and luscious baked goods) would defang Strider's unique wit. That, indeed, “Dave Strider” would become a brand name, like “Betty Crocker” herself—one that this time promised sarcastic disaffection and disillusionment as Crockercorp attempted to cash in on the Gen X trend. (Its snack division had already scored massive hits with Reality Bites, the fractured graham cracker that tasted like bittersweet nostalgia, and En-Nui, refrigerated biscuits that never quite browned right.)  
     Instead, together Crocker and Strider have made something completely unexpected: **Hyannisport** (sic), a surprisingly tender black comedy set in Canton, Anywhere USA, about Derq (Donald Faison, last seen in this summer’s **Clueless** ), a young genius with robots who is hopeless with humans, and Mr. Kennedy (Crocker), his unlikely best friend and the mayor of Canton - and his eventual rival for the affections of lovely local lady lawyer Teresa (Ming-Na Wen, **The Joy Luck Club** ).  
     Critics have likened Hyannisport to **The 400 Blows** and **Au Revoir Les Enfants**. Even — thanks to Crocker’s inspired, heartbreakingly comic-until-it’s-tragic performance — **Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday**. Strider disavows them all: “Yo hablo Castellano, no hablo, uh, French-o.”  
     So who are his influences? “Hell if I know,” he claims. “John, obviously. Keenan Ivory Wayans. All the Wayanses, really. Even Kim. Shatner. Later, TJ Hooker Shatner, not young, moist Trek Shatner. Sid and Marty Krofft. Cliff Huxtable.”  
     That’s all television, he is reminded. What about film?  
     “Hey,” he says, animated for the first time in our time together. “Don’t be disrespecting TV. TV raised me. I love it like Seattle loves heroin.” He sits back, regaining his near-catatonia, only to add in his soft Texas drawl, “That’s a lot.”  
     You’ll never get a straight answer out of Dave Strider. That’s a big part of the appeal. 

| 

   
  
---|---  
  
  


* * *

Hyannisport receives three Oscar nominations – Best Original Screenplay and Best Director for Dave and Best Actor in a Supporting Role for John. As soon as he can after the announcement, Dave bundles John down to the parking lot.

"What are you doing?" John doesn't resist, doesn't even slip out from Dave's arm around his shoulders. Despite doing press since seven AM, he's still fresh and crisp. He smells like oatmeal cookies.

At the passenger side of a toothpaste-green convertible, Dave stops and holds open the door. 

"Celebrating," Dave says. He's better at doing than explaining. Because John looks no less confused, he adds, "Wanted some time alone with you."

John's smiles transforms. "David! How splendid!"

It's almost four in the afternoon. Crawling down the freeway gives them plenty of time to argue about where to go: John votes Malibu, Dave, Tijuana. John counters with Vegas, but Dave holds firm.

He doesn't actually care where they go. The point is cruising down the highway, top down, hand on John's thigh, and _moving_. The wind makes it hard to hear, let alone speak, and Dave could hardly care less. John's leg is warm and strong under his seersucker trousers. He doesn't complain when Dave's hand accidentally-on-purpose slides a little higher, then higher still.

In profile, he's absurdly handsome, strong nose and silver hair streaming back off his face. The skin at his jaw is loose with age, so soft; when Dave runs his thumb down it, John tips into the touch and murmurs something lost to the wind. Dave slips his hand into John's hair, then around his neck, pulling him closer.

"Careful," John says. 

Dave pretends he didn't hear.

He drives on, as night falls, the sky never going entirely dark. It's dun-colored, clouded and low, but the lights below are beautiful, thousands and thousands of stars twinkling and shimmying. 

Everything's flipped around. Dave's stomach is nearly in his throat; it has been all day, but he only feels it now, feels the excitement and thrill filling him up, overspilling.

"I'm so proud of you," John says.

Dave squeezes John's thigh harder, as high as he can go. The heat of John's cock greets him through the thin fabric. Dave smiles and doesn't take his eyes off the road.

The car winds up into the mountains. A few stars wink into sight, though they still pale before the lights in the basin. 

They have the road to themselves and Dave guns the engine as John spreads his legs. His head tips back, mouth opening, narrow torso lengthening as he stretches back.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dave can only see fragments. He wants it all.

"Fuck it," he shouts, jerking the wheel to the right to bring them up on the shoulder. He needs to see it all, needs to be over there, on top of, in front of, John. He needs, and now.

He's turning too fast.

There's a flash of John's face, mouth opening, and a cartwheeling light. The crunch and crumple of metal and shrieking jangle of breaking glass, and pain that opens up and sucks in all the light, all the sound. Drops him alone and in agony in the dark.

He comes to with blood sticking his eyes nearly shut. He sees a field of glass shining like fake snow, like he's Santa, coming in for a landing. He realizes he must be upside down. The car's on top of him and he's jackknifed over the dash head out the windshield.

If he just went out like James Dean, he's going to die all over again of the lame.

He can't hear anything beyond his heartbeat. 

Where's John?

Dave tries to call his name, but all he can do is gargle blood. The passenger seat is above him, the windshield is gone. His skull is full of nitroglycerin and pain as he tries to turn over to see what's out there.

Something twisted and broken lies in the road. It's wearing shreds of John's clothes. 

It's so quiet. 

The broken glass sparkles in a sea of slick shadows. Blood.

A red van pulls up silently. Everything's lit up now, so bright and flattened that Dave has to struggle to keep the one eye open. Four figures jump out, all wearing identical red jumpsuits. 

Two lift the broken thing easily, as if it weighs no more than a coat. It has one arm and two legs. It swings between them. Another grabs the bloody head by the silvery hair and lobs it underhanded into the van.

It thuds against the wall. His scream evaporates out Dave's pores.

"Where's Strider?" someone asks.

Dave remains still.

"Must be gone," another voice says. Dave's holding his breath, holding everything inside. "Do the drop and let's go."

There's blood on their jumpsuits, great dark oily smears. They carry out a six-foot long roll, like a carpet or something, and empty it onto the ground.

It's John. Again, another one, same clothes, placed face-down and limbs set akimbo.

This one's chest rises and falls.

Just as quickly as they arrived, the jumpsuits climb into the van and it executes a sweeping, silent U-turn, going back the way it came.

The single headlight is dimming.  


* * *

  


* * *

  
Rose is next to him when he wakes up in the hospital.

"Eat your Jell-O," she tells him without looking up from her book.

"You're not my real mom," he replies. "You're not the boss of me."

Her smile is twisty and private.

"So. Joke's on me," Dave says. His bed creaks beneath him. 

"How's that?"

He crosses his arms, first left over right, then right over left. Neither feels natural, but neither does letting them lie straight at his sides. Where's he supposed to put his goddamn arms? 

He puts his left arm over his eyes, but that just puts pressure on his bandages. "Whatever. Never felt like that about someone before, turns out, haha, there wasn't a someone there to feel like that about. Stupid fucking me."

Rose turns the page. He can hear the crisp paper between her fingertips. "Ironic."

"That's not irony."

"In fact, yes, that would be textbook irony."

"Oh." He wiggles, but fails to get more comfortable. "Irony fucking blows."

"Indeed."

When he's discharged from the hospital, a red Crockercorp Town Car is waiting for him outside.

Rose steps up in front of the driver, scary witch face, fists on her hips. "Where do you think you're you taking him?" 

"Work," the driver says.

"It's okay," Dave says. "I'll go."

Rose just looks at him, so intently, like she's reading every secret he's ever had. "Come back."

Dave shrugs. "Do my best."

The car delivers him to an office building he's never visited. No buttons in the elevator. It swooshes upward so fast his spleen hits his heels.

The elevator opens on the most generic studio reception area possible: white walls, red Crockercorp logo, glass desk with a gorgeous woman in black.

He waits in the single chair for over an hour. Finally, the door opens.

The office is as long as a bowling alley. All the way at the far end, someone is standing behind a desk, jutting up like a harpoon.

A _fuchsia_ harpoon. 

"David," she calls. "Sit down."

He complies before he knows what he's doing, sinking into a loveseat that nearly swallows him whole. His knees are almost level with his shoulders. 

"Where's...?" He can't say John's name. _John_ , just the syllable makes him choke. Fuck, he's a lost cause.

The woman's heels click-clack on the black marble floor. "Resting."

He wants to laugh, or protest, but he feels really sleepy.

"Who are you?" he asks. His tongue's thick and heavy, big as a sturgeon.

(Wait. What's a sturgeon?)

"You can call me Betty," she tells him. Up close, she still reminds him of a harpoon, or a sword, or – something else thin, long, deadly. She's decked out in a bright pink and purple dress-for-success suit, complete with shoulder pads, and heavy gold jewelery, and so much hair. So much, cascading back from her face, down her back.

She's _glittering_. It's suddenly dark in the office, a thick, dusky darkness that only makes her sparkling brighter and sharper. Everything in LA glitters – it's all the steel and windows, mirrors and dental veneers – but Betty is something else.

"Betty." The word feels wrong in his mouth.

She's not John's mom. She can't be. That Betty would have to be like a million years old.

"I do hope you're feeling better," she says. 

"Yeah," Dave says. "Yeah, no, I didn't get the worst of it."

"You didn't see anything," she says. Then, coming closer, she adds, like she just remembered to make it a question, "did you?"

The scent of the ocean wafts over him. It reminds him of the stale shadows under the Huntington Beach pier, old salt and twisted green seaweed, dried-out dead things that used to wriggle and squirm.

When she smiles down at him, he could swear there are more teeth in her mouth than there should be. Sharper, too.

He shrugs, using the gesture to scoot a little further away, and then further still, until he can breathe again. "I was pretty out of it. Don't remember much."

"Good," she says, and pats his shoulder. She should not be able to reach him, but she does. She squeezes, fingers closing around the bulb of bone, nails digging deep, then releases him. "We're anxious for you to get back to work."

Dave coughs, which his broken ribs do not appreciate. "Can I talk to him?"

"Do you really think that's a good idea, David?"

"Probably not."

She doesn't smile. "Good boy." 

"But can I?"

She's coming back. His skin tingles, her scent prickles over him, and she's towering over him. It's cold in her shadow, like outer-space cold. "Are you going to make this difficult?"

He looks up. It's so dark most of the magenta of her outfit is washed out; she's just a looming dark figure, framed by so much hair.

"Who are you?" he asks. Whispers, actually; he swallows, but his mouth is dry and his throat clogged.

She smiles. _That_ , he can see, a flash of white that doesn't fade. 

Her hands cup his face. For a wild moment he thinks she's going to kiss him. 

He struggles in her grip as she hauls him up, one hand on his throat, first two fingers of the other hand drawing back. Her magenta nail-tips are gorgeous, he thinks, and then she plunges her claws into his eyes, pops out them out _slurp-bomp_. Before he can scream, she drops him.

"No," she says, walking away, sucking on her treats, "you didn't see anything."  


* * *

  


* * *

  
"Well, my brave knight," the old bat says. "What brings you to the South Pacific?"

He jiggles the fat baby on his knee and tries to smile toward Mrs. English. He thinks she's over there; he's still getting used to this blindness bullshit. "Rose said maybe you could help with financing."

"What kind of stories do you want to tell?"

He covers the baby's ears with his hands before saying, "Screw stories. Just want to fuck some shit up."

She claps her hands and the baby squeals excitedly. "This is going to be _fun_."  



End file.
